


my room filled up with light

by percypersimmon (persiflet)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Biology, Body Dysphoria, F/F, Female Friendship, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Queerplatonic relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 11:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/609470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persiflet/pseuds/percypersimmon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After they win the game, Calliope has to find her place. It doesn't help that she's imprisoned and her jailor is a highly frustrating vampire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	my room filled up with light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [adjuvantQasida](https://archiveofourown.org/users/adjuvantQasida/gifts).



 

 

 

Kanaya's room is nicer than the others. It's covered in bolts of fabric and illuminated by a multitude of lights in different colors. You wander over to a particular lamp, casting a red glow over a shimmery weave, and pass your hand underneath it, and try to pretend for a little moment that you're home. It doesn't work. Your hand is too big, your claws too long and still stained with blood that glows under the red light.  
  
Kanaya shuts the door softly behind her. You look at her out of the corners of your newly regenerated eyes. She glows much brighter than a computer screen, and it hurts to look at her too long, but you're far too self-conscious to ask her to turn it off. The light isn't the only pain you get from seeing her. She's kind of the perfect example of all your old longings, a tall and graceful troll, elegant and stylish in a long green dress. She pats the couch. Gingerly, you sit down next to her, and look down at her, suddenly nervous.  
  
"It isn't much and I know you would probably prefer to be with your friends," Kanaya starts, but you cut her off.  
  
"It's lovely, thank you." You're ridiculously grateful to her right now. You do not want to see any of your friends at the moment. Maybe ever.  
  
Kanaya sighs, worrying at her hands. "This was not my idea," she tells you. "I do not think you are going to kill us all in our sleep. You have far more than proved yourself.” She looks down, and the light around her face tinges faintly green. “If it weren't for you I don't think I would have been able to achieve... well, any of my assigned goals. But Rose and Meenah have... concerns... and they appear to be calling the shots around here."  
  
"Well, I suppose that makes sense," you say. "You are a rainbow drinker, if events necessitated it you could without a doubt break even a neck as thick as mine-"  
  
"It won't come to that," she says quickly. Her hands fiddle with her skirt. You've made her upset. You should probably feel sorrier than you do.  
  
The couch is made of some kind of soft fur. You stroke it. You remember, inanely, that you always wanted a dog, like Bequerel in Rose's book. Not an omnipotent First Guardian dog, just a shaggy companion that would go on adventures with you and warm your feet. A creature you could touch and love.  
  
You hear Kanaya sigh, long and low, and glance at her. She looks tired, and young, and not like a jailor at all.

 

* * *

  
  
There's a window outside, which considerately provides you with a prime view of the endless pristine void. Occasionally, Kanaya glances out of it, and then looks away with a grimace.  
  
Selfconsciously, you say, “We could perhaps spiffy it up a bit. I'm sure that with Jade's help we could create some sort of garden-”  
  
“Oh,” Kanaya says softly, “a garden. Do you really think any garden we might create would be more than just a pale imitation of the one on the planet we left behind?”  
  
You say, “I'm sorry you're upset.”  
  
She says, “I'm not upset. We won, didn't we? We restored our races to our own 'mythical paradise planet,” and you can hear the air quotes, very precisely. “We just didn't get to go there ourselves.”  
  
You wonder if paradise would even want a vampire and a monster. You don't say this out loud.  
  
Kanaya's room isn't nearly as warm as your home; none of the rooms on this lifeless chunk of rock and metal are particularly comfortable temperature-wise. Still, the cold makes you just as sleepy as the heat ever did.  
  
You're curled up underneath the sink when you become conscious of a light touch, and you wake up just enough to register Kanaya's gentle hands, placing an enormous sheet of what feels like crushed velvet over you. You wonder if she alchemized it for this particular usage, or if it's appropriated from some elegant project. You don't wonder too long, though, because the weight and warmth of it is pulling you down once again to the dark depths of dreamlessness.

 

* * *

  
  
TG: hey kanaynay, status report tiem beep boop  
GA: Well  
GA: Not Much To Report I'm Afraid  
GA: She Basically Just Sleeps A Lot  
GA: Its A Little Frustrating  
GA: She Sleeps With Her Eyes Open Which Is Disconcerting Also  
TG: huh youd think shed done enough sleeping  
TG: but then seems like everyones in the time wasting biz here whether that be sleeping all day or watching shitty movies 24/7 so  
TG: guess i have no stones to throw since all i do is cook cake wrecks w/janey  
TG: hey  
TG: dayglo gurl  
GA: Yes  
TG: does she ever  
TG: ask about me  
GA: Roxy

 

* * *

  
  
Kanaya stays in her room, and people come and talk to her. Dave visits most often, to try out his latest poetic sagas on the two of you. He is very talented, and when you compliment him his pale skin flushes red and he almost, almost smiles. Kanaya is very polite to Dave, and you think they've got some kind of deeply ironic politeness contest going on that is very difficult to keep track of. One time though before he leaves he says something to her that you can't hear, and they hug, all irony lost in the awkwardness, Kanaya slouching down and Dave tip-toeing, angular troll body pressed against soft lines of a human silhouette. You look away.  
  
Karkat is the other one who visits regularly. You like him because you think he genuinely likes you and tries to be nice to you. He sits uncomfortably on one arm of Kanaya's armchair, shoulders hunched, glaring up at you which is probably his way of being friendly. "You two don't even know," he says, "how incredibly fucking lucky you are to be cloistered in here like two virgin mothergrubbers. I shut my ocular globes for half a fucking second and this whole place turned into partytown for assholes."  
  
"It must be very difficult for you," Kanaya comments solemnly.  
  
"Are we discussing the Beta Trolls?" you interrupt, wondering a little at your own daring.  
  
"Uh, if by that incomprehensible descriptor you mean the Dancestors or whatever the fuck we're calling them now, then yes, but not just them. I am talking about the worst most pitiful excuse for an inferior lifeform ever graced by the fucking incomprehensible light of Skaia-"  
  
"Ah," Kanaya says, cutting off what is bound to be a near-endless tirade, and you can see the comprehension dawning, her eyebrows raising a little and her luminescence fluctuating slightly, "you are referring to Dirk Strider."  
  
“Dirk is a lovely chap,” you say, “once you get to know him.”  
  
You remember agonizing over the right shade of orange to capture the lines of his body, the shape of his lips on Roxy's cheek. You used to play at love so much.  
  
“He is under the misapprehension,” Karkat states, with exaggerated calm, “that I am his kawaii anime waifu. This is probably due to poor diet as a wriggler which has resulted in a brain composed of puppet stuffing and shitty soda.”  
  
Kanaya says, “If he is really bothering you I suppose I could go talk to him.”  
  
“Shit no, because 'talk' for you probably involves chainsaws. I can handle myself.”  
  
You start to say, “I could talk to him,” and then stop, because you don't think you could. He's always been far too honest for his own good, or indeed anyone else's.

They're both looking at you now. You wish your voice was still that preadolescent whisper and that your mumbling didn't reverberate hollowly with all the sonorousness of an adult cherub's quaternary vocal folds.

"Thanks, Calliope," Karkat says, "you don't have to, it's fine." His red eyes are so gentle you cannot stand it.

 

* * *

  
  
Rose doesn't appear. You suppose this is probably for the best. Should never meet your heroes, you can hear Jane say in your head. Turns out your favorite author is just another fallable adolescent after all.  
  
Actually, you can't really believe you were so crazy over her style as a kid. You shake your head sadly at the poor taste of your past self. Roxy's writing is way better.  
  
You don't write fanfiction these days, even though Kanaya has thoughtfully alchemized you a husktop. You've logged onto Pesterchum and that's about it. You're not sure if you have any dreams left.  
  
Except that's not true, because you watch Kanaya reading Breaking Dawn, reclined vertically inside her empty recuperacoon. You used to wish so much you could sleep in one, but actually Kanaya looks rather uncomfortable in it, and it's cold and slimy to the touch. You watch her, trying not to be too creepy, and you dream about making friends.  
  
And then your mouth opens of its own accord and your tongue moves against your sharp teeth and says, “Uh, can I touch your ears?”

 

 

 

_WHY DID YOU SAY THAT WHY DID YOU SAY THAT WHY WHY WHYYYY_

  
  
“Um,” says Kanaya.  
  
Pause.  
  
“Well I suppose there is no harm in platonic ear touching,” she says. “I have no doubt the results will be useful to Science.”  
  
Science, in the Void, is a fakey fake thing that is fake, but you lean forward and touch her left ear anyway. You touch it with just the tip of your claws, with the dexterity that comes from having to learn to type with knives at the ends of your fingerpads. Her ear isn't soft and pliable like you'd expected; it's rigid, and ridged, and closer inspection reveals it to be dotted with a galaxy of tiny black spots. You're glad she's got her glow turned off, and you can see every detail.

 

 

 

 

  
  
You say, “I don't have any ears,” and win the award for Captain Obvious of the sweep.  
  
“Don't you?” she says, surprised.  
  
“Well, um, I suppose I must, but they don't protrude like everyone else's.” Her skin feels scaly, not leathery like yours or soft like you imagine a human's must. "Same thing with my nose."

"Like a slitherbeast," Kanaya comments with what approximates scientific curiousity aboard this meteor. "I would gamble good money you possess an excellent sense of smell, too." At this distance you can hear the harmonics in her voice, and smell the cold reptile troll smell of her. Then her ear disappears from under your claws, as she awkwardly wrangles herself out of the recuperacoon. Crumpled paper falls from the folds of her skirt, the cocoon filling she's been using since they so fatally ran out of slime. Once she's steady on her feet, she heads to the sewing machine.  
  
You watch her sew. She has talented hands, strong and deadly, tipped with viciously sharp claws- they're not so different from your hands, if you can forget the color and size.  
  
You don't know how long you watch her before she stops, the sudden absence of clack-clack sewing machine sounds reverberating in the air, and looks directly at you. She says, "Would you like some new clothes? Those are a little... worn."  
  
You would very much like new clothes, that aren't your brother's, that don't smell of his power and his murder and aren't stained with his blood.  
  
She gets out a cord with black marker inches marked on it. "I'll have to take your measurements," she explains.  
  
Oh gosh.  
  
You're expecting an invasion of personal space, but that's not what happens at all. The cord whips around your narrow hips and wide chest and monstrous shoulders. She hums quietly, a vibration like the buzz of an insect. You do not feel her hands on your body.

"It is fortunate," she comments, "that I tripled the length of my measuring cord some time back in order to properly measure god tier wings."

You think about all the ways your proportions have changed since you last slept in your coffin. Your shoulders are now twice the width of your hips and your arms hang down to your knees. No wonder the only article of clothing your brother could ever wrestle onto this ridiculous frame was that horrible fashion disaster of a coat.

She asks you, "What sort of clothing would you like? A dress, or-"

"A suit," you say, "would be preferable."

She frowns. "That will require a great deal of tailoring, but it's possible."

 

* * *

  
  
TT: So. I believe I speak for us all when I say that this hollow parody of existence wore out its comedic value several weeks ago.I do not wish to sit around on my ass waiting for the rest of my life to happen to me, and I know I am not alone in this feeling. Therefore I propose a project: building a session of our own.  
TT: Who's with me?  
TT: Is anyone even online?  
TA: 0h my god this is ridicul0us  
TT: Dear me, Sollux, tell us how you really feel. Don't spare any consideration for my delicate womanly feelings.  
TA: it's impossible the grist c0st alone would be astr0nomical  
TT: I thought you had a way around that.  
TA: i didn't think y0u'd use my genius on this kind 0f stupidity holy fuck  
TT: Your vote of no confidence is duly noted.  
TT: Anyone else eager to tell me what an idiot I am?  
UU: yoU are sUch an idiot!  
UU: yoU always have to cheat and try and break everything don't yoU? Even the mUltiverse itself! yoU forget that paradox space always does things for a reason. We just need to have a little more patience!  
TT: Strange though it may seem, my heedless self did indeed consider that argument. You are correct that I sure did a lot of pointless damage in our first session that never really amounted to much of anything. However, I believe I was meant to come up with this idea. I am not the best of Seers but I think it is probably the only way forward.  
GC: 1 TH1NK OUR FR4GR4NT L4V3ND3R COMM4ND3R 1S PROB4BLY CORR3CT  
GC: B3C4USE  
GC: SH3 USU4LLY 1S  
GC: H33 H33 c3<  
TT: ...c3< to you too.  
TA: ew  
UU: if yoU two could perhaps stop egregiously flirting in a confusing way none of Us really comprehends, I woUld appreciate that!  
GA: Calliope Calm Down  
GA: Maybe Rose Has A Point  
UU: why do yoU always have to agree with her!!  
GA: Calliope Shes My Girlfriend  
UU: that doesn't mean yoU have to do as she says! that is simply pertUrbing and wrong!  
GA: Of Course It Doesnt However It Does Mean I Bring Up Disagreements In Private And Do Not Make A Spectacle Of Myself Arguing With Her Publicly  
UU: yoU shouldn't have to take this! she certainly doesn't deserve yoU. yoU are *far* too good for her, you silly ridicUlous troll!  
GA: Its Clear You Were Not Raised To Be Polite  
UU: oh, and yoU were?  
TT: You guys are aware I am still here, right?  
UU: i wasn't addressing yoU, lalonde.  
GA: Shut Up Rose  
TA: oh my g0d get a pile you three this is embarrassing for all 0f us  
UU: what are yoU insinUating, Sollux?!  
GA: Even If There Was Such A Thing As You Were Insinuating  
GA: It Would Not Involve Rose  
TT: I  
GA: Shush Rose This Barely Even Concerns You  
UU: EVERYONE  
UU: JUST  
UU: SHUT THE FUCK UP AND GO AWAY  
TT: ...all right.  
TA: yeah that sounds go0d  
GC: 4GR33D  
GA: I  
GA: Uh  
GA: Okay  
  
You stare at the screen for quite a long time.  
  
UU: *sigh*  
UU: i'm sorry i jUst-  
UU: i jUst need some time love  
  
uranianUmbra has disconnected.  
  
  
You crouch on the floor, leaning against the door, facing the too-small couch and you tuck your head into the fold of your knees and wish you were brave enough to close your eyes.

 

* * *

  
  
Someone is knocking on the door and has been for some time.  
  
You raise your head. "It's bloody well locked, all right," you shout. "And I do not have the key!"  
  
There's a moment of silence, then, "oh," says Jane.  
  
Oh bollocks.  
  
There's a slithering noise, and then, "Okay," says Jane's voice, now coming from much nearer your collarbone. "I just wanted to maybe, uh, converse for a bit."  
  
"That," your throat is blocked, and you clear it with more than your usual awkwardness, "that sounds nice."  
  
"Well you see Calliope-" she says all in a rush, then stops, and giggles a little in a tinny way. "Oh geez, UU, it is decidedly odd to refer to you as Calliope."  
  
You say, "I'm sorry for not being truthful to you, lovely. It wasn't very fair, was it? Me knowing everything about my lovely friends and not being brave enough to tell you my own silly story."  
  
"Calliope," she says, "we are friends, aren't we?"  
  
Your claws are in your mouth again and you chew them, trying not to cry. You missed Jane, you missed her a lot.  
  
"Janey- love- you and Roxy, are you-"  
  
“Um,” she says, and there's a shifting sound of fabric against the door, her Life pajamas against cold metal, “well-yes.”  
  
When you find your voice you say, “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“My spanking new eyes, they're quite nice.”  
  
After a while she leaves again, and then after another while a new message pops up on your chat client.  
  
GG: If you need to talk, I am here. We do worry about you. :S  
  
You appreciate the thought, but you know you will not respond.

 

* * *

  
  
It's about an hour after that when the door opens and Kanaya stands there, awkward angles, the light beneath her skin flickering on and off, meaningless Morse gibberish. She says, abruptly, “I'd forgotten how it felt to be fussed over.”  
  
You don't say anything. It feels like your tongue's stuck to the bottom of your mouth.  
  
“Karkat used to, and I thought- but he was just being a good friend. And Rose- Rose did not and does not and I do not fuss over her and it is quite wonderful but-”

"What are you trying to say?" you ask. You are very tired. "You are dancing around the point, as usual. It's really exhausting!"

She flares white. Mint spots dance in your vision. "I am trying to talk about my feelings! You are being incredibly unhelpful!"

A sinking stone in your stomach, oh dear Lord. You spit words out from around the rising lump of hot embarrassment and anger. "Well I apologize for accidentally coming on to you, since it clearly offended you so much you had to fret over it for half the night-"

She stands there, beautiful and blinding in her rage, says, "I cannot believe you," turns on her heel and yanks open the door. Paused for a moment on the threshold she shouts, articulate voice cracking, "I am pale for you, though God only knows why as you are the most frustrating, infuriating, dense, horseshit-spewing creature that could ever exist in any possible timeline."

She leaves. The door slams.

 

* * *

  
TT: Calliope, are you there?  
TT: I wanted to apologize.  
TT: It was terrible of Meenah and I to imprison you all this time. Meenah's very sorry too.  
CC: yeah sure whatevs  
TT: I hope you can understand that  
TT: I didn't want anyone else to  
TT: die  
UU: its okay

 

* * *

  
  
The hours pass, and you start to feel the lateness of the hour grate against your bones. It's been more than twelve hours since you opened your eyes this morning to the emptiness in your own skull. You should be chained by now, lying in your tomb, you should be nothingness by this time, an inaccessible section of someone else's brain, neurons sparking only for strange, indecipherable dreams.  
  
You should go to sleep.  
  
Kanaya should have been back by now.  
  
You sigh. Bollocks.  
  
When your jailor finally reappears you're sitting in a corner, back against the cold metal wall, long thick legs spread out in straight lines in across the carpet, like a jointed doll positioned by a giant's hand. You're not sleeping, you're just resting your eyes a minute, letting them go unfocused and letting your thoughts wander, but when she opens the door, even though she's trying to be quiet, you nearly jump out of your skin, become once more a lost and beautiful ghost.  
  
She glances at you but her eyes are dark and you shrink back from them. She passes you. You don't look at her but you hear her sit down at her sewing machine and tap one clawed foot against the pedal, but she doesn't press down. And then there is silence.  
  
You intended to remain on the couch, but somehow you find yourself slouching against her chair. The dry hard back of your skull is pressed against her thigh. You wait a moment, afraid to breathe.  
  
There is the lightest touch on the flat top part of your head, and then a more solid pressure. She is very precise, with those sharp claws made for eviscerating prey. She strokes your head. She is gentle.  
  
You let your breath out.  
  
You remember writing fic about this. It seems like a millenia ago. And it wasn't- it wasn't with her, it was with-  
  
well.  
  
You say, "Have I proven myself yet?"  
  
You feel her blink, claws skittering lightly on your exposed skin. Then she says, "You have nothing to prove to me. And if anyone disagrees, I will back you to the hilt. Or rather handle. Of my chainsaw."  
  
You giggle. You are lightheaded, and oh so happy. You are not a cherub or a troll or a human right now, you are a cloud high above Prospit's moon.

 

* * *

  
  
She does your makeup light with the pads of her fingers. Smooth dark black around your eyes, shimmering glittering spring green covering the red circles of your cheeks. She fastens your bow tie. She uncurls her thin fingers and reveals little Ophiuchus snakes. Cufflinks. "I alchemized them last night," she says, quiet, and fastens them to your sleeves, pinning you to your clothes, to your identity.  
  
  
You go downstairs together, her walking a little ways ahead of you because there isn't really room for both of you in these narrow tunnels built for slender carapaces. You hear voices up ahead, winding their way from the rec room you've never seen, some familiar and some artificial. It must be an unofficial Tuesday, you realize.  The voices from the projector resolve themselves into Kick-Ass. You wonder why. They've all complained about seeing that movie at least ten times too many, and Vriska isn't even there. It's just Jane and Roxy and Rose, sitting awkwardly on the couch, equally spaced with the precision of  natural-born awkwardness. Kanaya sits down between the Lalondes, elegant knees drawing up to her chest, and pats the couch- it takes you far too long to realize she means come over, sit down Calliope, and when you realize it you freeze because of the way Roxy's right there and looking at you with eyes that are completely sober and awake and that see you, every overgrown inch. But your moirail is patting the couch, and so you sit down. Your legs are too long. You set them out in front of you, slanting. Kanaya leans against your back. You hear Rose whisper to her. Kanaya's weight is still solid against you through two layers of fabric. On screen Chloë Grace Moretz says, _Show's over, motherfuckers._  
  
Roxy puts her hand over yours.  
  
You hear Jane sigh sleepily and you do not look over to the left, you look at the tv and focus on the feeling of Roxy's fingers, warm and slightly sticky on the knobbles of your knuckles.  
  
You close your eyes, long lashes brushing your face with a feathery touch. Kanaya's angular shoulder presses into you and Roxy's hand rests lightly on yours and there is nowhere you would rather be.

 

 

 

  


FIN


End file.
